I stopped talking to my parents in January 2007 (I think, I don't remember exactly). At least, that's the last time I ever called them. And they just never called me back.
But since then, I'd been wondering whether they'd ever try reaching out, try making amends. I thought that on my mother's deathbed, she might find God—truly find God, not that fake cult crap she put us through—and finally apologize.
I've thought about her death a lot over the years, mostly because I've always known she always wanted to die. She constantly threatened death—either in a passive way, that ol' "Since this may be my last Christmas..." gag, or in an active way, openly fantasizing about drowning herself in the bathtub.
After all, her physical health was pretty terrible—something I was acutely aware of as far back as third grade. And her mental anguish? Way before that, as far back as I can remember.
So I couldn't help but be curious as to when it would happen, how it would happen, how I would feel, what my dad would do.
How would I even find out that she had died? And what would happen if my dad died first?
My parents eating cake at their wedding reception, May 4, 1973*
Well, many of those questions have now been answered. My mother died on March 3, 2025. I found out on March 11, when my cousin called me after the funeral service.
My first reaction? Relief.
I hadn't realized how scared I'd been of my mother, still. The fact that she was still out there, somewhere was terrifying to me—but it was a terror I was so used to, I never really acknowledged it. And once she was gone, I felt an enormous weight lifted off of me.
I was kind of happy for her, too. This is what she wanted for so long. The pain was finally over.
She didn't, by the way, die by her own hand. It was a much more mundane and tortuous story of falling, going into a nursing home, and catching an infection there that would finally take her down. I don't know the exact timeline. I don't know what she injured when she fell, or how or where she fell. I don't know what kind of bug she caught, or how it ultimately took her down.
There are people in my life who think that my mother's death means that a door to repairing my relationship with my father has opened. But I think the fact that he didn't reach out to any of us when my mother first started to decline—whatever that timeline was—and didn't even try to tell us when it first happened makes it very clear where he stands.
I'm so glad to not have so many "What ifs" hanging over me now. And the best part is, I haven't had one of those recurring nightmares where I'm back at the house and packing up, trying to get out of there, wondering how I got sucked back in.
In fact, I've only had one dream about my parents since I found out my mom died. It was back at the old house, but it looked totally different, and it was just my dad there, with a bunch of people who were strangers to me. I was glad he wasn't alone.
A photo taken by Maria of my mother taking a photo of me at my college graduation, May 1997*
In my waking hours, I'm grateful for the life I have now. I don't mourn what could've been, because it could never have been—not with her. Not with her baggage. Not with her illness.
Fortunately, I've had a few surrogate parents to take care of me along the way—like Nicki's and Maria's and Chrissy's, who all took me in at various times after my parents kicked me out. Jon's and Tony's parents let me spend holidays with them when I had nowhere else to go. Michelle's dad still helps me out at times when I'm jobless and broke.
In fact, one of the first people I called when I found out about my mother's death was Maria's mom, who's shown me time and again how wonderful having a mom can be.
She always tells me she loves me when we talk on the phone. The last time my mother said "I love you" to me was on 9/11. I don't remember how long it had been before that. Years, certainly.
I never understood why my mother hated me. (I know that she did because she told me she did.) I always felt so much contempt from her, it was overwhelming.
I even felt it from afar—for the remainder of my time in New York City, and even after I moved to the other side of the country. I wasn't running away from her when I moved, but I always kind of felt like I was looking over one shoulder.
All of this had been weighing on me more than I ever realized—until I was released from it.
I have lots more feelings about all of this, about my mother, my father, my history, my identity. And I'm kind of mad it's getting dredged up now, when I was perfectly fine not thinking about it all the time.
So maybe I'll write more in the future.
But this is all for now.
*I only have four photos of my mother—two from her wedding (which my aunt and uncle sent me in a packet of family photos) and two from my college graduation. One from each are above.
Related Posts:
No comments:
Post a Comment